Circumstances in my Favour—Incognito of the Princes—The Journey
of 1776—Extraordinary Precautions—The Duke’s Attention to his
Wife—Sudden Alteration—Delivery of the Princess—Complaisant
Witnesses—Parliament Absent—Dread of Self-betrayal—Secret
Sorrows—Mutual Indifference—Speech of Louis XVI—Others made by
d’Orléans—Striking Resemblances—Important Traces.
My task would doubtless be finished if there were no question but of
inspiring confidence and giving conviction; but when I think of the
advantageous position of him I am going to fight, can I be too anxious to
equip myself with weapons and support?
Let us therefore consider certain circumstances which furnish us with
further arguments in our favour.
1st.—When, wishing to rid those who will receive him of the strict
rules of a tiresome etiquette, a prince resolves to travel under the
little-known name of one of his estates, he takes care to make public
his voluntary metamorphosis, so that, under the borrowed title, none
will fail to recognize him who bears it for the moment; and, far from
avoiding the palaces of kings, he visits them in order to enjoy their
delights more at his ease.
As an instance, let us take the journey of 1776.
Madame de Chartres, having accompanied her husband to Toulon, where he
was to embark for his campaign at sea, resolved to visit the Peninsula,
without having previously obtained the permission of the Court.[33]
Surely she ought to have taken every care to conceal this _freak_, for
which she expected to be banished at least.[34]
Despite this fear, she had it pompously announced that she should travel
under the name of Comtesse de Joinville, published her itinerary, showed
herself everywhere in public, and everywhere accepted the homage paid to
her.[35]
Why, then, was nothing of all this done three years earlier? Why this
profound silence, this impenetrable mystery? Why the _secret incognito_,
as the witnesses call it? Why did the Duke and Duchess wish to remain
unknown, even to the extent of going to an inn, in a town over which
their nearest relations reigned,[36] and preferring to pass the night at
a hotel rather than accept the invitation sent them to come to Court?
Do not these precautions, this secrecy, point to the committing of a
crime, and a crime still far more heinous than that of disregarding the
deference due to one’s sovereign?
But let us ask, what was that crime?
Point it out to us!
In Heaven’s name, could we be told of any other but that very one with
which so many incontestable proofs have made us acquainted?
2nd.—During his wife’s first pregnancy, the Duc de Chartres never left
her side, redoubled his endearments as her time approached, gave up his
former evil courses and behaved to the Princess in the most exemplary
manner. “Which,” says a writer, “gave immense delight to the Duke of
Orleans, and still more to M. le Duc de Penthièvre.”[37]
True to this way of behaving, in 1773, he did not leave the Duchess
during the months preceding my birth; the most he did was to take a
short journey to Chanteloup to see the Duc de Choiseul;[38] while after
the month of April it was nothing but a series of absences on his part,
excursion upon excursion, journey upon journey;[39] and, so far from
exercising any restraint, or restricting himself in any way, he spent
the whole day with jugglers and pickpockets, cast about for new ways
of sinning, and carried his excesses and debauchery to such a pitch as
to amaze and shock the by no means susceptible servants of the Palais
Royal.[40]
What are we to conclude from so great and sudden a change?
One of two things: either that the Duchess was no longer _enceinte_, or
that the Duke had ceased to care about the child she might give him.
This second hypothesis is evidently inadmissible, especially when we
remember that the stillbirth of 1771 must naturally fill his ambitious
spirit with the gravest fears.
And if he had become so indifferent to the birth of a firstborn, why, six
years later, did he express such delight on finding himself the father of
a third son?
We must perforce come back to the first supposition, and acknowledge the
delivery of the Princess as already accomplished; which entirely agrees
with the account of certain inhabitants of Forges,[41] who state that she
left their town towards the end of July 1772, with all the signs of the
beginning of a pregnancy which would naturally find its termination in
the following April.
But if she was no longer _enceinte_ in April 1773, was it not impossible
that on the 6th of October of the same year she should have given birth
to the _Duc de Valois_?[42]
What is told about the time of that confinement is therefore a fable, and
a fable of which my story alone explains the motive.
3rd.—It is evident that this event, which was said to have happened five
and a half months after I was exchanged, required no precautions if it
was a reality; but, on the other hand, very many if it was a pretence.
Accordingly, it was not in the parish church and in public, nor even in
the Palais-Royal Chapel, but in some unascertained spot in that dwelling,
that the child, born, it was said, at three o’clock in the morning,
was privately baptized in the presence of two obscure witnesses in the
service of the Orleans family. No Minister of the King’s, no Gentleman of
the Court was to be seen; in a word, no one was there of whose devotion
there could be any doubt.
And that is not all; in the _Gazette de Modène_, called _Le Messager_,
No. 44, Nov. 3, 1773, we read under date of Paris, October 11—
“Every one knows that here, on the birth of sons of the royal blood,
a report is drawn up in evidence, in the presence of Parliamentary
Commissioners who sign it.
“This formality was neglected in the case of the Duc de Valois, and all
that was done was to add to the report made on the occasion the words,
_Parliament absent_.
“The report was presented to the King for his signature, and it is said
that, paying no attention to these words, his Majesty at once signed it.”
But the thing, according to the journal we quote, seemed so astonishing
that the public, not understanding it, thought to discover in it a sign
foretelling very great political events.
4th.—The journey of 1776 had been long planned, and even before leaving
Paris there was a positive intention of carrying it out.[43]
Nevertheless it was only in a letter dated from Antibes that the Duchess
told the King of her plan, assuring him there had been no premeditation,
and alleging, as excuses, her wish to see her grandfather, the Duke of
Modena.[44]
But why was this excellent excuse sent from afar; why not dare to give it
in person; why put oneself under the sad necessity of lying about it?
Ah! no doubt one feared for one’s own countenance; one feared to blush in
speaking the word _travel_, and, above all, the name of Italy; one might
dread the withering look of a sovereign to whom indiscreet tongues might
already have revealed everything.
5th.—On her return from this same journey, the Princess had hardly
crossed the boundary of her own country when, as reported by Mme. de
Genlis, _she burst into tears_.[45]
Now, these tears, after a short and voluntary absence, a simple
pleasure-trip, would surely have been senseless tears if they were caused
by nothing, as pretends our _veracious_ historian, but joy at being once
more on French soil.
Would it not be more natural, more reasonable, to attribute them to
importunate memories, for ever connected with the country just left?
6th.—M. Delille, the Dowager’s private secretary, tells us in his
journal[46] that this lady _confided to her father-in-law hidden troubles
which she dared not reveal to the Duc de Penthièvre for fear of grieving
him too greatly_.
Can it be said that this refers to the grief caused to the Duchess by her
husband’s misconduct?
Alas! there was no secret about that; everything was but too well and
publicly known; and it is to be supposed that Madame de Chartres would
have preferred going for comfort to her virtuous father to complaining
about it to the Duke of Orleans, who, in such matters, was no more
blameless than his son.
These hidden troubles, requiring so much discretion, must therefore have
been of quite another nature, and arose from a different cause.
7th.—The sensitive Princess could never reconcile herself to seeing her
children given over to the management of a _governess_. Her complaints
never ceased; over and over again she made warm and urgent protests.[47]
Yet who would believe it? These cares and anxieties had nothing to do
with the one of her sons who, by right of primogeniture, would have
seemed most likely to be most dear to her.
If he informs her that he will be much away with his _friend_,[48] _she
is quite willing; assures him that what suits him will always suit her,
and tells him that she does not want to restrain him in any way_.[49]
Whence arose such indifference in a heart otherwise so warm?
And, on the other side, could real filial love, the love nature must
perforce create, exist in one who thought himself lucky that he was not
obliged to go to see his _mother_ more than twice a week,[50] and whose
affection for his governess was so far greater than that he felt for _his
own parents_?[51]
8th.—His reputation having become somewhat inconvenient,
Louis-Philippe-Joseph, in 1782, went to Versailles to ask permission from
Louis XVI to absent himself.
“The King,” writes an historian, “received him rather coldly, and
answered him in words to this effect—
“_I have a Dauphin; Madame may perhaps be enceinte; Monsieur le Comte
d’Artois has several children. You can do as you please. I do not see in
what way you can be of use to the country; so go when you like and return
when it seems good to you._”
Why this momentary silence and thoughtfulness, if it were not to remember
a fact about to be the object of veiled rebuke from august lips? And what
fact? What cause for so severe a reprimand?
According to all evidence it related to the _paternity_ of the traveller,
and to the dangers with which his absence might have threatened the
succession to the crown if it had not been for the existence of several
children of the elder branch.
Who would not feel sure that the monarch, knowing of the whole adventure,
took this opportunity of moving the culprit to shame and repentance?
9th.—The Convention, after the defection of Dumouriez, having, at its
sitting of the 4th of April, 1793, ordered that the citizens Egalité and
Sillery were to be watched, Sillery mounted the tribune and stammered out
these words: “If my son-in-law is guilty, he ought to be punished; _I
remember Brutus_ and his sentence on his own son, and I will imitate him.”
Then came Orleans, and, as he gazed at the bust of the First Roman
Consul, he, too, said, “If I am guilty, needless to say, my head should
fall; if my son is—I do not believe it, but, if he is,[52] _I, too,
remember Brutus_.”
These horrible words, from which Nature revolts from the lips of a
father, can be well believed from those of a _complaisant_ husband;[53]
but could the well-known virtue of Madame la Duchesse allow of such an
explanation relative to her husband?[54]
To all these forcible arguments may be added one already mentioned, and
which, after all that precede it, would be too extraordinary if it were
the effect of pure chance.